


and it's summertime (they say it's summertime)

by Still_sleepless



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Difficult Decisions, Loneliness, M/M, Poverty, Social Commentary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_sleepless/pseuds/Still_sleepless
Summary: People take each day at a time, hardly stopping to breathe and still they call it life. Hongjoong disagrees.//It's hard to be happy when there's nothing to be happy for.
Relationships: Jeong Yunho/Kim Hongjoong, Jung Wooyoung/Kim Hongjoong
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	1. skeletons out for the taking

**Author's Note:**

> I spent an hour deliberating over what to write. After a lot of thought, this is the product. I've been wanting to write something meaningful and so I hope I've done the topic (and Hongjoong) justice.

Wealth - or the absence of it - is what makes us who we are. People can preach about individual differences and free will all they want but in the end the world crushes the poor under the heel of its polished leather boot.

Reality doesn't give a shit about happiness and whole generations race their entire lives chasing just a fighting _chance_ to survive. To be _happy_.

Hongjoong is caught in a sandstorm. The grains whirl about with no direction and cut across the soft, smooth skin like he's a canvas meant to be torn apart from the inside out. He's another ant to be stepped on, one more hungry body that's incapable of becoming something substantial. He's tired of it. Exhausted by the story that runs circles around his mind. Spending so much time keeping your head above water, living from paycheck to paycheck isn't _life_. It isn't even a caricature of life.

It's survival. The barest bones of what life _should_ be. There's no difference between Hongjoong and a husk.

It wasn't always this way.

"This way please." A pretty woman chirps, her voice the most colourful thing in this building darkened by desperation and an unfortunate colour palette. Her pinstriped suit is starched, creases sharp and straight.

Hongjoong keeps his eyes cast low, watching the way the shadows on the walls flicker and waver as the overhead lights dim sporadically before lighting back up in a foolish dance. It's dismal, really. He doesn't comment though. Just follows along obediently, arms swinging heavily.

"Just take a seat in here. An advisor will be with you shortly." The woman gestures towards a room to their immediate right, arms stiff and proper as she maintains her shiny customer service smile. Hongjoong rigidly smiles back, unpracticed and unfamiliar in all the ways that smiling should not be. 

Quickly dropping the smile, he swings the door open and briskly walks in. The moment the door closes behind him and he's left in solitude, Hongjoong relaxes, shoulders dropping and back bending forward.

Turning away from the door, Hongjoong takes in the office. It's bigger than his bedroom, overlooking the metal monsters that steadily overtake Seoul with each passing year. Soon enough, masks won't be enough to keep the air pollution at bay. Hongjoong shakes the thoughts away and slips into a seat near the windows. 

It's not the first time he's been to a financial advisor and most certainly won't be the last. But ever since he's had to move from his last apartment, Hongjoong can no longer afford to travel to his last one, located several miles too far away for it to be comfortable. 

He winces as once again he remembers the eviction notice that had been placed on his door. No amount of begging could stop him from being kicked out of his (relatively) comfortable housing. The wound is sensitive to the touch but Hongjoong thinks about all the ways things had gone wrong, everything he had _done_ wrong. It hurts but he's always been one to prod at barely-healed scars. The pain is almost satisfying in a way, serving to drive him forward onto bigger and better things.

At least, in theory.

In practice however, Hongjoong finds it unlikely that he'll ever rise out of the dirt. He'll be passed around from advisor to advisor, always drowning _just_ below the poverty line, hands breaking water before another accident, another incident, another disaster arrives and pulls him under. This time it was the fact that apartments haven't been fucking rent-controlled since the golden years of Korea's economic boom, years before he was even born. Next time it will be something else, medical bills or a faulty fridge that needs replacing.

_Or maybe there won't be a next time. Life can't continue without food on the table._

Right as he thinks this, Hongjoong's stomach makes a noise of protest, as if perking up at the mere thought of food. Clutching his stomach, Hongjoong rolls his eyes in annoyance, "I shouldn't have missed breakfast..." He mutters off handedly, thinking back to the disgustingly bare state of his fridge.

He startled when there's a concerned voice from the door, "Yeah, you shouldn't have." Hongjoong's sharp gaze shoots upwards and fixes upon the man hovering at the - now open - door. The man shrugs, not moving any further into the room. "I didn't mean to frighten you. You were pretty deep in thought." Hongjoong doesn't respond, glare smouldering the longer the exchange goes on. 

**_F_** _ **righten** me. I_ _t would take more than that_. His irritation is irrational and biting, rising up like a flood that breaks through the dams of logic. Outside, a bird flies right into the glass beside Hongjoong before dropping at the stun. His gaze doesn't change, as unfaltering as everything else about him. 

Inevitably, the man leaves, door shutting with a dull _thud_ and leaving the oppressive hostility that Hongjoong carries with him like an unwieldy armour. Hongjoong lets go of a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding, immediately angry at himself for not being able to act normal _just_ to get through this meeting. He's doubly angry that the man would just leave like some kind of coward.

"Why the hell would he just leave, anyways? It's not _my_ fault if he can't handle his job." Hongjoong huffs vindictively, while fully aware that he's only justifying his own behaviour. Briefly, he considers walking out and calling it a day. After a few minutes of waiting, Hongjoong stands up. "Fuck it." 

Just as he's decided, the door edges forward painstakingly slow. If Hongjoong listens close enough, he thinks he can even hear some mumbled curses being uttered. Tentatively, Hongjoong sidles forward and opens the door fully. On the other side of the entrance is the man from earlier, balancing a large tray stacked with a variety of food in his hands.

He perks up when he notices Hongjoong's presence, smile melting softly onto his face, like damp snow. "Ah. Thank you. I was struggling quite a bit." When Hongjoong makes no further efforts to move, he quirks one eyebrow up impressively before squeezing past carefully. Hongjoong flushes when he realises that he's blocking the way in and quickly leaps further away.

"Sorry for the delay, there was a long line at the elevators." He places the tray down on the desk, right next to the neat line of papers that sit in an array of squares. The advisor settles into his chair before casting a hand towards the seat opposite him. "Please. Take a seat." He's completely genial, voice raising in steady octaves as he open his laptop. 

Hesitantly, Hongjoong walks across and sits down, teetering on the edge of the chair, never allowing himself to be too indulgent, too comfortable. Across from him, the advisor glances at his straight-edge posture and coughs while straightening up himself. "Feel free to eat anything you want." He says cheerily, eyes dropping back to his laptop screen.

After a beat of silence, Hongjoong finally opens his mouth, voice raspy. "Why?" Is all he asks. It's all that comes out.

"Why, what?"

"Why did you bring me food?" Hongjoong spits out, volume raising ever so slightly in exasperation before he reels his emotions back in. 

Not even looking up, the stranger responds matter of factly. "You said you didn't eat breakfast." There's a smudge of pink on his collar, Hongjoong's eyes zero in on it before the man shifts and it's gone from view.

"So?"

Opposite from him, the man stops tapping his keyboard and his curiosity falls upon Hongjoong. His lips turn up slightly, brown eyes painted across with amusement. "So?" He repeats, as if having misheard.

Hongjoong only bares his teeth.

After seemingly considering something, the man closes his laptop and places both hands on his desk. "I'm sorry. I've failed to introduce myself. I'm Jeong Yunho. From this point onwards, I will be your government-assigned financial advisor in regards to your employment insurance. It's to my understanding that you signed up through the Treasure Map scheme?"

The silence stretches onwards, as far as Hongjoong wants the silence to go before Yunho cuts through it with a breezy exhale and an easy smile. "And as we're both already aware, you're Kim Hongjoong." 

Yunho stretches both arms forwards and for a moment Hongjoong thinks that he's reaching out for _him_ , immediately he's on the defensive until he notices Yunho merely working out the kinks in his muscles with a teasing glance at Hongjoong's agitation.

"Now, as I said already, you're _free_ to eat the food that I've brought up. Think of it as a welcome perk of being assigned to me." 

Hongjoong notices that Yunho is almost always smiling. It's infuriating. _What does he have to smile about?_ He questions silently, suspicious of everything related to unconditional happiness. The concept of it is foreign. Yunho continues talking, unaware of Hongjoong's internal monologue. 

"However, you're not under any obligation to do anything. I am also, very much aware that this is not a comfortable situation to be in. If you would prefer, I could drop the pleasantries?" Before Hongjoong can respond that, _yes, you should drop the goddamn pleasantries. This isn't a social call._ Yunho quickly adds, "But I want you to know this can be made much easier if we were at least _friendly_. I know this might be hard to believe but I _do_ care. Not just about the state of your financial affairs but also about _you_ as an individual." Hongjoong waits impatiently for Yunho's _touching_ speech to reach it's conclusion before he lazily scans Yunho several times over. 

"Do you know me?" He asks, tongue heavy and sticking to the roof of his mouth as the blunt words come out slowly. 

"Well, no-".

"Then unless we've got some other connection aside from me being poor as shit you can stop pretending that you give a damn."

Furrowing his eyebrows so his face takes on a tired, pinched look, Yunho frowns. For a moment it seems like he might say something else. He opens his laptop back up, the tray of food pushed further away.

"Okay! I'll be taking you through your current options." Yunho's voice is cheery again and he enthusiastically explains the contents of his projections. "So, this is what's-". 

Like every time before, Hongjoong knows what will be asked of him. The spiel gets drowned out as if it's mere white noise that's relegated to the background.

Hongjoong floats.

**

He cycles home, face turned towards the velvety sky that's inked with cotton candy clouds. Today, the world is pink. Not the pink of blushing cheeks but the pink of diluted blood, watery and running down the sky in a race to the bottom. It's in every reflection that Hongjoong passes, his bleached hair looking darker than he last remembers. The sun bleeds warmth that batters on against the flesh of his back. It's almost numbing, the stark brightness that the world has to offer. So much of it to spare and yet none of it is for him.

Hongjoong scoffs at the sentimentality, almost dizzy from the tangy scent of the heliotropes that grow in such abundance in the centre of Seoul at this time of year. Slowing down, he follows a bend that exists in parallel to a stretch of stream. The water runs smoothly, fresh and clear so that the sea trout and redfish can clearly be seen gliding away from the heat of summer.

Dotted along the roads are streamers whipping wildly in the breeze. They're in the national colours, calling for a patriotism that Hongjoong hasn't possessed in years. Flying ahead are kites controlled by chattering kids and as Hongjoong passes by, he hears the dazzling laughter of carefree youth.

Weaving through the streets of Gwangjin-gu, Hongjoong feels a hatred for the wind that cools him down even as he's heating up. Passing by the historic depths of the Han, there's no greater emotion than the disgust he feels for the hypocrisy of everything around him. From the ancient grounds of the temples to the cold technicolor that greets him in the city's centre.

He speeds on faster, bursting through a throng of damselflies and for a second he considers letting go. To just shriek _I don't know how I'm meant to get through the rest of my life._

The papers in his backpack feel heavier than anything else he's had to carry.

Breathing hard, Hongjoong comes to a sudden stop in front of a shabby rooftop apartment building. He's relocated to Gunja-dong. Nowhere near the high-rises of Konkuk or the expensive tastes of the Technomart.

It's home. Or at least an imitation of a home. Someone's home but not Hongjoong's. It's simply somewhere with too high of a deposit.

Hongjoong wheels his bike in and begins the long walk up to his apartment.

Nothing important awaits him.


	2. craving disaster but i got you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's the price of not giving a fuck?

Hongjoong is canvassing, hopes pinned upon the promises of a politician whom he's never met. A politician whom he will never meet. It hurts to know that the only person who seems to care about Hongjoong's plights is an old man living half the country away. And it might not even be true. 

But he has to try.

There's a hole in his heart. The valves torn apart by the absence of wealth, the absence of health, the unknowing knowing of realising that life will never go the way you want. It was determined before Hongjoong had ever even tried to take his first breath in a rural hospital bed. His parents born in the dirt and their parents before them born even beneath that. Life is a struggle, an upward mountain that grows larger the more you lose hope until at some point you realise you've never even seen the peak.

It's not fair the burdens we're born with. But Hongjoong has never fooled himself into thinking otherwise.

Even now, flyers in his hands, only to be crumpled under an unruly foot or fly away in the wind.

Fate is fickle. It picks and chooses the elite like allocation of such a thing is as easy as blinking.

It's true that Hongjoong wants to fight god. He wants to dig into the cold chambers that god hides in and throw down a gauntlet. He yearns to hold a chalice to signify his pride, to don gloves if only to protect his hands because they're the only way he can make money anymore. And after he's won, he wants to ask _why?_ Despite knowing that why doesn't matter because even after beating god in the devils home, he'll still return to an empty home with empty walls and an empty heart and picture frames with the stock photos left in because there's no one he can trust enough to let in.

Hongjoong is redundant. He embraces the redundancy like a lost friend and tries not to choke on the waning breeze, air overloaded by fragments of pollen that bring tears to his already watery eyes. The birds have returned late, whispering of secrets that Hongjoong could never possibly know. He thinks that maybe there's a reason for their late arrival. Then he remembers that there's rarely ever a reason, God placed us here only to forget about our existence.

Maybe he's just on a break, popped down to the shops for a carton of cigarettes. 

It doesn't matter. Here, behind a building he can barely breathe in, hidden in the shadows, Hongjoong stares out at the trees and can't sense a future where he could ever be happy.

Bringing the flyers closer to his chest, he stomps across the road, loose gravel kicked up with every brusque step.

A mop of red hair catches his attention and he lets out a heavy breath, one that rattles his bones out of place and settles in the depths of his body, right down to the ground beneath. Carefully, he walks up and sidles close to the boy who turns and silently appraises his appearance. 

"You look like shit." As always, Mingi is never one to pull the punches, sharp cheekbones pulled taut with a reckless grin. He's dressed in all-black like he's one funeral march away from an open casket. Hongjoong hones in on his hands, already empty, and he manages not to wince. His own hands are suddenly much heavier than before.

"I feel like shit." Hongjoong responds, not bothering to dwell on his own patchwork clothing, shoes worn down by time. 

Mingi frowns, a familiar expression that only ever seems to appear when Hongjoong opens his mouth. Wordlessly, he takes half of the flyers from Hongjoong before he beams and stops someone in their path, voice suddenly smooth and no longer bearing the heavy tones of worry.

The girls who stand before Mingi stare wide eyed up at him, necks craning to meet his eyes, and once they do, they're suddenly all smiles melting and cheeks blushing on cue. Mingi continues as if unaware of his effect on them and after two minutes of words that drum a deep bass in Hongjoong's ears, the girls accept the leaflets coyly and are sent off safely.

Mingi stands next to Hongjoong again, spine straight, eyes looking ahead with a blank look that Hongjoong knows all too well. Indifference. 

Indifference that disappears the moment someone appears in their path. Then it starts all over again, a shitty play where Hongjoong and Mingi are the unfortunate side characters begging for a quick moment of attention. 

_Please sir_

_A moment of your time ma'am_

_Just listen to me please_

_I need money_

_I'm starving_

_I'm dying_

_Fuck_

"Fuck." Hongjoong hisses, open cut stinging as he hurriedly hands some passerby a leaflet. It's not a particularly large cut, barely visible. But as Hongjoong examines it, the pain seems to grow.

It's always the small things. Things that others take for granted or sneer at. Things like leaflets they had printed at the shop for 76.46 won apiece, printer churning with strain and shopkeeper watching with narrowed eyes.

Mingi takes the leaflets and gently manoeuvres Hongjoong to a raised step. "Sit." He says pointedly, shaking his head before Hongjoong can say anything. "You look like you're about to pass out."

There's remorse for what Hongjoong has done, what he continues to do, a deep-seated cowardice that stops him from saying the truth. Confessing he's scared. It comes out at the oddest of times, like right now, under dusty blue skies and Mingi dripping kindness with every syllable. 

"I've got a job later today." Hongjoong says, instead, pointedly avoiding Mingi's eyes. "It's just moving some stuff for an acquaintance. Wanna join?" Hongjoong squeezes his finger until a bead of blood pops and runs down inside his wrist. "It's after your shift ends", he adds, before Mingi can ask.

The day is quiet. Most people have continued their commutes to wherever they're going while Mingi and Hongjoong are stuck in place, no destination in mind. Slowly, Mingi looks around, emptying streets as barren as their job prospects. Finally, he slumps down next to Hongjoong. "If you'll eat dinner with me afterwards, then sure."

There's a pause, sun disappearing behind the clouds, and Mingi is suddenly cast in muted greys, red hair no longer as vibrant. He procures a tissue from somewhere and wipes at Hongjoong's hand carefully, frustration etched out in the press of his lips and the tilt of his head.

"I'm buying and you can't change my mind." Hongjoong bites his tongue, protests of _it's a waste of money_ and _I've got food at home_ disappearing akin to smoke as Mingi smiles, brightening up like so many late afternoons.

Beneath the very notion of existence, drumming a chaotic pattern, is the thought that maybe Hongjoong being here right now is only sustained through his continued spite for living. As if he would collapse the very moment he lets go of the restraints on his happiness and were to just _feel_. Hongjoong, even with his red-hot tongue laced full of abject scorn, doesn't _want_ to be like this. At the root of all his problems, is a desperate desire to just let the world be _kind_ to him. He is touch-starved and love-starved in all the maddening ways that would force a simpler man towards the unimaginable. 

An old car chugs on by, exhaust pipe spilling grey fumes and Hongjoong is driven by the terrible feeling that the world will never move past this moment. To be kind is not a liberty that he'll ever grasp, fumes filling him up with the casual kind of malice which he's grown ever so accustomed to. A modern world which is always introducing ever increasingly modern measures of pain. 

His life is a cookie-cutter template for a disaster plan, devolving into something worse with every passing second. Their only lifeline is now degraded to pieces of paper asking for a 15/hour minimum wage. And his way of life is not even unique to _him_.

So many people living in the aftermath of emotional fallout, a warfare of your lifestyle in a cosmopolitan world and a brigade of minimum wage workers who can't afford to take off sick-days for fear of repercussions. Next to him is Mingi, a soldier of nobody's making, marching not - into the trenches but - into the ever growing expanses of the unemployed, a resume his only weapon. 

Kindness is a sickness dipped in poison by a government that doesn't care, will never care, because the bottom-line is reaching new heights of green bills. 

Dusty blue skies aren't enough to obscure the truth yet Hongjoong can't find it in himself to care. He'll grab onto this one moment of peace and run, society pivoting under his footsteps because the world might not be kind but Mingi is as gentle as anything could ever hope to be.

Hongjoong jumps to his feet, stealing the flyers from Mingi's hands with a cool smile that reaches his eyes and his heart and his soul. "Is that a yes?" Mingi calls, elation already evident from the grin in his voice.

Hongjoong flies past a thousand nos until he meets the only yes that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> word vomit #25271


	3. me, through the ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All these circumstances coincided for the perfect storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am here, once again, to give you a shit-ton of exposition.

Hongjoong is 23 now - too old for mistakes, too young for wisdom - but he was a child once and a treasured infant before that. He was born the year before the IMF crisis, a series of events that changed what could have been a stable childhood and left his, and many other, lives completely unbalanced ever since.

60 billion dollars. 

That's how much they borrowed from the IMF. 60 billion dollars was what was needed to patch their leaking economy, a bandaid that did just as much harm as it did good. War was the reason. Hongjoong has found that war is always the reason. A country crippled by the aftermath of lives stolen and labour lost; they could have only resorted to loans.

It was a fundamental shift in their society. Suddenly, his father lost his job at a company he had been working at for close for to a decade. There was no warning, no safety net that would have helped them stay afloat. It just happened. 

In order to borrow such a large amount Korea had to agree to change key elements that would enable foreign nations to have a say larger say in the market. The growth of the economy was placed before the security of citizens and the biggest blow were the policies that enabled employers to terminate contracts with minimal backlash.

Still, they had to keep moving, had to race towards that elusive finish line.

His mother, pregnant and desperate, sold her gold and lost a vital part of herself in the process. 

The _gold-collecting campaign_ , they had called it. A noble moniker. One that speaks of heroism and honour. It was none of these things. Martyrdom, maybe, but honour doesn't make sacrifice taste any sweeter. Funny how a label can do that. How it can change a negative into a begrudging positive. Everything exists on a knife's edge. Hongjoong knows this as well as anything.

In an effort to pay off their country's debt people from far and wide sold their most prized possessions and managed to gather 2.2 billion. It made a dent but not enough to change what had already happened. It's difficult to reverse the effects of economic collapse. It's even harder to pretend you love your country when resentment ferments in the face of failure.

Soon after, his parents moved back south to Anyang, deciding to live within their means. The city was more urban than it had once been but Hongjoong could never settle even as a child, the mountains whispering to him when he wandered too close. He's strayed too far now and the mountains don't speak anymore. 

We fight the rich man's wars and die the poor man's death.

The red light in Hongjoong's head is beaming, a siren or a stop sign, and he's forging ahead, not knowing how to stop for the world because nobody has ever stopped for him. He's a train that's been derailed. There are tracks in the dirt but Hongjoong can't stand the grooves, can't stomach the fucking metal of it all, too cold and _so_ impersonal.

He _wants_ personal. He wants the heat of the sun and the mess of the fall. Hongjoong _wants_ but he doesn't _get_. In a crowded room he's still alone, the steeple of the church; the dark of the forest.

Does a person choke if there's no one around to see it?

Hongjoong walks into the woods to avoid reaching the end. The end comes for us all eventually, though, sooner for some than others.

The wealthy have no idea. They're able to enjoy life with their golden spoons because the economy is so _good_ right now.

 _Good for who?_ Hongjoong wants to ask. 

_Not good for me. Or the others that I've seen._

Government bailouts mean that the rich are a breed that will never die, even if such astronomical levels of wealth shouldn't be possible. Imagine drowning in your own greed. To be so self-serving, you can't see past the green dollar points of you own worldview.

Hongjoong can't imagine. His imagination has never been that good. But he tries.

It paints an awful picture, his imagination, one where dead men float in oil barrels and the slick grease is like a tattoo on the rich, smudged against groomed brows. One where the cut of silk can't hide the guilty conscious under paper skin, pale and unpalatable all the same.

We assuage our worries by saying _this matters. We matter._

_My life is important._

It's not.

The only difference between a rich man and a dead man is the eyes, and Hongjoong can easily fix the discrepancy, a vulture who's craving release. 

If something doesn't change, he might go insane.

Ask it again.

What's the difference between a rich man and a dead man?

_Nothing._

Hongjoong doesn't have to think again. He knows that it's nothing. 

Count a second. Four babies were just born. Count another second. Two people just died. These are the most important moments in life.

Sometimes, Hongjoong thinks that they might be the only important moments in life. There's so much effort placed upon the newly born and the recently dead. But there's no care for the living, for those who have been circling around the sun for decades.

Hongjoong is neither newborn nor dead. He's in that awkward space in between. The crushing loneliness tells him as much.

Humanity is more than this, surely. It is our innate urge to place meaning where there is none, to believe in greatness which doesn't exist. It's our greatest collective fault; this inability to accept the mundane nature of our reality. We can't have been placed on this earth for _this._

_Tell me there's something else._

Hongjoong doesn't want to be reduced to just another statistic. A number in an incomprehensible stack of numbers. A star amongst a sea of stars.

It's not his choice.

All these circumstances coincided for the perfect storm.

Two gen-z fuckups walk into a dive bar. One has blood red hair and the stance of a embittered soldier. The other is bleached of colour and has all the confidence of someone who resents life for making him live.

There are many ways to end this joke but there is nothing funny about the way that Mingi counts his coins. Nobody is laughing when Hongjoong asks for free refill after free refill. That would mean pretending that the other patrons are any better. People don't come to dive bars for the atmosphere and if they say they do then it's a blatant lie.

Mingi motions at Hongjoong, leaning across the booth and struggling to be heard over the obnoxious music that they've both heard a thousand times. "I've been going to Angel's recently." Mingi wrings his hands, a peculiar twist set on his lips and Hongjoong doesn't really understand. 

He leans forward further, staring hard, feeling like this is more important than either of them know. "You've been going to a soup kitchen?" He's purposely gentle, moving to place one hand on Mingi's, but Mingi pulls away before he can.

"No, I'm-" He hesitates, fiddling with his ring, eyes shaking slightly before he steadied, "I've been volunteering." He grins, a marked difference that feels more and more like a mask every time Hongjoong sees it. "They recommended that I go help out at at this youth centre in Guri-si. I thought it would be cool if you came too?" He says it like it's a question, searching Hongjoong for his reaction.

"Mingi, you know that I'm here for you right? Hongjoong pointedly says instead. This is pivotal. This is the beginning of the middle, a place where they're both stuck but you can't save someone if you can't save yourself. When the silence runs for too long, Hongjoong sighs, giving in. "Yeah, fine, I'll _join._ I guess it would be nice to help out."

The reaction is instantaneous, Mingi perks up and loses the kicked-puppy expression, and Hongjoong is once again startled by how easily Mingi can convince him to do things. "Hyung, I _promise_ it will be fun. These kids need guidance and I couldn't think of anyone better than you!" Hongjoong scoffs at the unwarranted praise but Mingi ignores him. "Plus, I was a bit worried that they might _maul_ me or something. Teenagers can be scary." This is kind of ridiculous to hear come from a six foot behemoth but Hongjoong nods understandingly.

"I'm here for you, don't worry," Hongjoong repeats, an echo of earlier sentiments. 

This time, though, Mingi softens. "I know." 

They split the bill even as Mingi protests, and on the walk home, Hongjoong stares upwards, wondering what the universe is planning next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise if this update was slow, as the title says, I wanted to give insight into Hongjoong "through the ages" and how he's ended up here.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any improvements that I need to make, please tell me! xx
> 
> Chapter title from "Skeletons" by Keshii.


End file.
